


One for the Road

by starhawk2005



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Het, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-29
Updated: 2012-07-29
Packaged: 2017-11-10 23:54:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/472125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starhawk2005/pseuds/starhawk2005
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It gets lonely on the road, sometimes, when you’re chasing the demon that killed your wife. Man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One for the Road

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: So not mine. Don’t sue, please, Kripke, I’m just a poor college teacher.

You’re sitting at the bar, nursing your first beer of the evening. It’s very warm in here, and you’re glad you wore the red sundress. The one that hugs your curves, that gets you plenty of attention from the opposite sex.

Attention is what you need tonight. It’s been one of those weeks, and now you want a distraction. So you’re cruising. No need to be ashamed of it, you remind yourself. Girls have needs, too. And never mind what ‘good girls’ do – you’ve never been one of _those_.

You first spot him in the dusty mirror hanging on the wall behind the bar, as he strolls in. Not bad. Dark hair, dark eyes, battered leather jacket. Tall guy. Broad-shouldered. Just your type, you think. You hope he sits down somewhere nearby, preferably at the bar itself.

The Fates must be with you, because he sits down right next to you. You sneak a look from the corner of your eye, not wanting to show too much interest just yet. A careworn face, sun-lines around the eyes, with a small scar next to his left eye. Doesn’t bother you at all. Adds character, in fact. And those eyes - dark brown, so dark in the dim light that you can barely make out the pupils. Long, almost feminine lashes. Rough-looking stubble around his mouth, along his cheeks. Well-shaped lips. Very nice, you decide.

You wait until he pulls off his jacket, dropping it over his lap, and then you make your move. “Buy you a beer?” you ask. Casual, confident. Not every guy responds well to that, but if he’s a _real_ man, he won’t bolt.

You half-turn on your stool to face him. He’s turned as well and is now facing you, and you spot another scar on his face, this time along his right cheekbone. Still doesn’t bother you. And he’s looking at you, obviously a little surprised.

There’s a beat, during which you wait patiently to see what happens. “Sure,” he finally says. Deep, gravelly voice, and you feel something stir in your belly.

You don’t show it, though. You wave the bartender over, and soon the dark stranger is nursing his own beer.

“I’m John,” he says after his first swig. Slowly, he offers you his hand. It’s big, with thick fingers. You take it, noticing the strength in his grip. The warmth. How much bigger his hand is than yours.

“Mary,” you offer. Something shifts in his eyes at that, and his hand tightens slightly around yours. Some change in his face, but you don’t know how to read it.

“Mary.” He says. But nothing else. He pauses, wets his lips, eyes dropping from your face as he finally releases your hand.

He looks like he wants to say more. But he doesn’t. His eyes dart back to your face for a second, before he turns his attention back to his beer, taking a deeper drink this time.

“You’re not from around here?” you ask. You’re not keen on this kind of clichéd conversational gambit, but you’d rather that to an uncomfortable silence. Or really just _any_ silence.

He shakes his head. “Just passin’ through.” He rests his chin on his left hand, and that’s when you notice it for the first time. A wedding ring. Plain, silver band.

Crap, he’s married. Figures, you tell yourself.

“You’re married,” you say. Your tone amused, edging into dismissive. Time to find a different candidate.

“No,” he says, glancing over at you. “Widowed. Been a long time.” He follows your gaze to the wedding band. “Never had the heart to take it off.”

You study him. He could be lying. But he seems sincere enough. Besides, why bother? He could’ve just taken the ring off and come in here for tail. He didn’t need to leave it on and construct the lie. Or so you tell yourself.

Besides, you’re hooked. It’s the voice, the eyes. The strength in those hands. You want to give this a chance.

“I understand.” You say, taking a swig of your own beer. Feeling his eyes on you. Feeling a blush start in your cheeks. He’s _assessing_ you, you can tell. 

“What do you do for a living, John?” you ask, still playing it casual.

There’s a quick, amused quirk of his mouth, which you don’t quite know how to read, either. “I hunt.” A man of few words, you’re realizing.

“Oh yeah?” you ask. He _does_ seem the part. Stealthy, quiet. A predator. Probably that’s what caught your interest in the first place. The hint of danger. “What do you hunt? Deer? Lion?”

Another quick quirk of his lips, and he takes another swig. “Whatever’s in season,” he rumbles, now smiling at you.

It’s a nice smile, you think. White, even teeth. Dimples too, for Chrissakes. But you get the feeling he doesn’t smile very much. Too bad.

You lose track of time, both of you finishing your beers at a leisurely pace, conversation drifting idly between you. The typical questions. He asks where you’re from, if you’re seeing anyone, what you do. There’s a drawl in his voice, laced in among the smooth gravel. _Hot._ You find out he’s been on the road a lot, traveling. That he has two sons, grown men. He’s proud of them, you can tell.

Lots of silences, too, but you’ve grown comfortable with that before too long. Although uncomfortable in other ways. You want him. It’s as simple as that. You want to know what those arms would feel like around you, those lips against your own, that stubble against your inner thigh.

It’s in one of the silences that you both finish your beers and get up. He waves off your attempt to pay, still saying nothing, and drops some bills on the bar. You look at each other for a moment, and you know he knows. He knows that you want him. His eyes travel down your body, then back up to your face, and he gives you another of those smiles.

“C’mon,” he says.

You follow him to his truck. And he drives the two of you to a secluded spot. He parks, kills the engine, and then turns to you, waiting, eyes gleaming faintly in the dark. No sound but the sighing of trees outside in the wind, the occasional distant rumble of a car or truck passing on the road you’ve left behind you.

You suppose you should feel nervous, even afraid. You’re in the middle of nowhere, in a strange vehicle, with a man you met only an hour or so ago. A big, powerful bear of a man. A _predator_. But you aren’t afraid. He doesn’t seem dangerous – or rather, not dangerous to you. A little shy, you think. A little sad. But not a _threat_.

And you still want him. Your skin feels hot all over, and you’re aware of a thrumming between your legs. You’re frozen in place, waiting to see how (or if) he’s going to start this.

He reaches out, finally, blunt callused fingertips brushing over your cheek, and you close your eyes. “Mary,” he says again, quietly, tangling his fingers in your blonde hair.

He leans towards you, drawing your face towards his. You kiss, and it’s hot and urgent. Mouths parting, tongues pushing against each other. You grip his jacket, digging your fingers into the leather. He smells like leather, too, and musk, and you squirm closer, wanting to be right up against him.

You’re both breathless when he finally releases you. Your lips feel swollen and burned from his stubble, but you don’t care. Passionate and sloppy, that’s what you like, and he’s giving it to you.

“Take off the dress,” he says. It’s not an order, or a demand, or a question. It just _is_. And it makes you tremble inside, the way his voice sounds, smoke and gravel.

You don’t waste any time, unbuttoning and sliding the dress off. Your eyes adjusting to the dark, you watch as John loses the jacket, the plaid shirt. You relax back against the seat, keenly aware of every ridge and dip in the vinyl against your sensitized skin. You think you see more scars on that chest, scattered among the dark curling hairs, but it’s hard to tell for sure in the dimness.

A powerful hand wraps around your wrist, drawing you forward against him again. But he doesn’t kiss you, just looks into your face with that intense dark gaze of his, and you shiver. You feel a hand slide warmly around to your back, and a quick movement against your spine. Your bra suddenly loosens, and you let him slide it off of you, let him pull you right up against him.

Chest hair tickles at your skin, making your nipples tighten, and he reaches between you, capturing one and squeezing lightly. You gasp against his shoulder, sliding your own hand between the two of you and up his broad chest. There’s some kind of charm around his neck, and your fingers toy with the pendant. But it doesn’t hold your interest for long. There’s too much else of him to touch, to discover. Firm muscle under your fingertips as you run them over his pectoral, teasing his nipple with your thumb. Dark hairs brushing against your palm as you slide it down to the waistband of his jeans.

He pulls your head up for another kiss, plundering your mouth with his tongue, and you can’t wait any longer, moving your hand further down and curling it around the hard bulge in his jeans, squeezing. There’s a lot of him _here_ , too, and you throb even faster in anticipation.

“Back against the door,” he rasps, and this time it _is_ an order. One you have no intention of disobeying. You’re not sure what he has planned, but you’re in no fit state to argue.

His hands go for your panties and you help him remove them, not caring that you’re now totally naked and exposed, as he guides you into the position he wants. So he can lean across the seats and get that dark head between your legs. Though he pauses for a moment, reaching up to touch your nipples again, stroking with light fingertips.

It’s awkward and a little uncomfortable. The raised part of the door – ashtray, probably – is pressing into your spine, and the cold glass of the window presses against the back of your head. You’ve got one leg drawn up, the side of it pressed against the back of the passenger seat, toes trying to grip onto the edge. And your other leg has been forced to the other side, knee jammed under the glove compartment. But when John kisses your thigh, you stop caring. Stop noticing these little annoyances.

His tongue is on you now, drawing a slow wet line up your thigh, moving closer and closer to your ache, and you’ve never been so hot for anyone in your life. So acutely aware of how his body is contacting yours. Hot breath, wet limber tongue, rough stubble. When eternity has finished passing and those lips finally make their way to your pussy, you nearly come then and there.

But he’s far from being done. He kisses, gently, and you moan. His tongue slithers between your folds and into you, and you gasp and let your head roll from side-to-side against the window glass, his name escaping your lips almost involuntarily. His mouth seals itself around your clit, and you can’t stop yourself, tangling your fingers inhis soft hair, holding his mouth in place as you push your hips forward, increasing the pressure against his tongue.

You writhe and sweat, panting, wanting to come and yet wanting it to last, wanting to hold this moment for as long as possible. You feel pressure at the entrance to your body, and then he’s pushing fingers inside you, arching them against your g-spot, and you gasp a final time, pulling the hot close air into your lungs as you come apart.

You manage to focus your eyes again a few moments later, in time to see him back in the driver’s seat, licking the last of your juices from the pads of his fingers. “Happy, darlin’?” he asks, smirking at you. Obviously pleased with himself.

You scramble onto your knees, ignoring the protest of your muscles, and launch yourself at him. You kiss him, tasting yourself on his lips, on the stubble around his mouth. Performance that inspired deserves a return favour, you reason, and you’re yanking his zipper down before long.

“Mind the steering wheel, darlin’,” he drawls in that deep voice, as you make a beeline for his ‘gun’. The only one that matters, far as you’re concerned.

You shove jeans and underwear out of the way, and he springs free, hot and hard. He smells of woodsmoke and musk, just like you expected he might, and you don’t waste any time wrapping your lips around the plump head, teasing with your tongue.

You can feel those thick fingers on your scalp, on the nape of your neck, caressing. Can feel his thigh muscles shift and tighten under the jeans fabric under your hands. You take him in as deep as you can, pressing your tongue against his shaft, feeling the veins pulsing under his skin.

He’s getting harder by the second – must’ve been awhile since his last partner, you reason - and you’re entertaining thoughts of letting him spill himself into your mouth, but he gasps out for you to stop.

You do, but you pout up at him, about to protest. But when he orders you to “Get on up here,” you decide it’s not worth an argument. You look quickly around for your purse, finally finding it on the floor in front of your seat, and fish out a condom. Girl’s gotta be ready for anything, you learned that awhile ago. He grins and lets you roll it onto him, after he’s gotten his jeans and underwear down around his calves. “I should’ve asked about that,” he says, apparently by way of apology. “Good thing one of us still has half a head on their shoulders-”

“Shut up.” you say, impatient to have him inside you. He chooses _now_ to be talkative, it just figures. Too bad. You straddle him, squeezing your right knee between his hip and the door, trying to balance yourself on the narrow seat. Trying not to brain yourself against the roof of the cab, or whack your lower back against the steering wheel.

He wraps those strong hands around your hips, guiding you down onto him, pulling you down to rest on his chest. Oh, he’s big alright, stretching you wide. Exactly what you’d craved this evening, when you’d gone out cruising. So _good_.

You’re both still for a moment, adjusting to the feel of each other, his arms around you and your head pressed against the coarse skin of his throat. And then you start to move. It’s slow at first, figuring out how much you can move within the constraints of the truck, and also because his hands are still on your hips, gripping tightly, forcing you to.

But the pace picks up, and you’re soon moving up and down on him as fast as your legs will let you, and he’s pushing up against you on every thrust, looking up into your face with an almost tender expression. And when his hand finds its way between you and his knuckles grind against your swollen clit you give in, digging your nails into his hard shoulders as you break into pieces again, your face pressed against his neck once more. “Yesssss, darlin’,” he growls, the sound vibrating against your ear as he spills himself inside you.

You stay locked together a short while, hot and sweaty and boneless, one of his hands stroking gently along your back. And he says your name again, quietly, like it’s some kind of talisman. You wish you knew why.

But it’s over. The mood has changed, and you feel it. You know you have to let him go. That’s how these things work. You climb off of him, stealing glances at him as the two of you get dressed. Trying to store images of him up in your memories. Since that’s probably all you’ll ever have of him from now on.

He asks if he can drive you somewhere, and you tell him to take you back to the bar. Tempting to ask him to take you home, to screw you senseless in your own bed, for the rest of what remains of the night, but you know it’s a bad idea. You’ll get even more attached than you are already. And you know this won’t happen again, ever. Not with him. It’s got that flavour to it.

He pulls up outside the bar, parking but leaving the motor running. As soon as you step out, he’s gone. You know it. Still, you can’t help asking the question.

“I’ll never see you again, will I?” You try not to let on how much the idea bothers you, though you’re not sure you succeed.

“Prob'ly not,” he says, low and quiet, the sadness back in those dark eyes. And it pains you to think that you’ll never hear that deep voice in your ear again.

Breaking one of your own rules, you dig in your purse, finally finding a slip of crumpled paper – an old bill from this very bar, in fact – and scribble out your name and number before you can stop yourself. What can it hurt? He’ll either come back this way sometime, or he won’t. Nothing to lose.

“Well, if you’re ever back this way again, look me up,” you say, slipping the paper into his hand as you lean over and kiss him, deeply and with finality.

He hesitates after you pull back, but you don’t want to listen to promises he has no intention of fulfilling, and that he’s just spouting off to make you feel better in the moment, so you turn and fumble with the door handle.

You get the door open and get out, not looking back, but before it closes behind you, you hear him say, “Will do.”

And then there’s the roar of the engine as he pulls away, fading rapidly as he rounds the corner and disappears.

You don’t watch him go. But you’re smiling. You’re a risk-taker, after all, and gambling on whether or not you’ll ever see ‘John the hunter’ again is just another such chance.


End file.
